


My Pulse, My Heart

by runwithbelief



Category: Original Work
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Battle, Broken Families, Drug Addiction, Leaving Home, M/M, Murder, Patricide, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-28 07:45:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17783387
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runwithbelief/pseuds/runwithbelief
Summary: Firas was a reaver, a berserker, a fearsome warrior with a fearsome sword to match, yet he had soft, wavy hair the color of platinum. He had pale and soft, smooth, supple skin with a number of scars—the most hated and the deepest was the one across his face. With such soft and beautiful features, it was all the more jarring to see those twist into a wild frenzy, blood boiling and heart pounding for violence.Twice, he had been trapped, and twice he had been freed. Twice, he wandered aimlessly, searching for the meaning of his life, though he felt a purpose somewhere in his heart he could not yet uncover.The second time he wandered unshackled, he wondered if, despite everything, he felt more free back at the powerful man he once served. That man, too, felt that his lair was not his home any longer without Firas at his side.





	My Pulse, My Heart

**Author's Note:**

> I've had many ideas for original stories for years, but this one I feel like I can nail down first. I'm not looking to change the core, but I would love feedback such as what you like, or if I made any spelling or grammatical errors or if a sentence sounded awkward and you know a way to make it work, et cetera. Constructive criticism is always welcome, but just "eww gross I'm not into that" comments aren't and will be deleted. 
> 
> This story is going to be heavy, and this very first chapter will be intense. If broken homes, abusive parents, violence, or anything like that upsets you, please proceed with caution. I tried to tag everything I could think of. If I missed something, please let me know.

He was born to Vida and Geoff, a happily married couple despite their poverty. When he was born, he didn't just cry—he arched off the sheets as the nursemaids tried to clean him of his mother's blood, hands balled into fists, face red as he screamed with _fury_.

 

With that, Vida named her son Firas—a lion, highly insightful and astute. Her agony, which had lasted from dawn until late into the night, had been worth it the moment she heard her son's voice and the moment she held him in her arms. She gazed down into his sweet face, round, pink cheeks, big eyes and long lashes, and she ran her fingers over almost white, downy hair. _How could such an angelic boy be so full of rage?_   Vida wondered, very much unaware of how terrifying angels truly were.  
  
...

 

The family lived in a small house made of stone and wood in a part of town where others mostly kept to themselves. It was obvious that one of their neighbors brewed dangerous and potent concoctions to intoxicate. The others seemed untrustworthy, always watching the comings and goings of the others when they had the chance.

 

Vida was a beauty with long, thick, dark hair and green eyes. She wore teardrop-shaped opal earrings, emeralds embedded into the metal nearest her earlobe. She kept a journal when she could remember or be bothered, but she would paint, craft, and eventually she would begin to make jewelry to sell. Geoff, a strapping man with much potential, never chose a specific path or craft himself. He took odd jobs for a while until a nearby farm offered him a steady job. They needed extra hands, and Geoff was strong. It wasn't a glamorous job, lifting hay, putting food and water into their respective troughs, shoveling up horse, cattle, and pig shit, but it put food on the table, clothes on their backs, helped his wife with her own aspirations, and his son, who had taken a liking to his mother's craft, to sword fighting, and to horses all.  
  
...

 

When he was no older than seven, Firas had found an old sword stored away that had shown signs of rust. When he showed this to his parents, they saw no issue in him practicing outside where they could see him.

 

Geoff was at the farmstead, and Vida had begun to weave their family tapestry when instead of hearing the almost inaudible sound of a sword flying through the air, she heard _clang! Ting! Crack!_

 

She rushed outside, eyes wide when she saw Firas swinging wildly at a well-grown tree as if he were convinced he could cut it down if he only perfected the swing of his sword. “Firas!” Vida cried, rushing over to him. “What are you doing?” Firas blinked, lowering the old, and now even duller sword. He stared at her for a moment, as if the answer wasn't obvious, then glanced briefly at the tree. “I wanted to swing hard and fast enough to chop the tree down with a clean swipe!” he said brightly, but soon his face faltered as he looked at the sword in his hand. “But this sword is...small...thin...and now it's duller, look...”

 

Vida sighed. “That sword is no good, Firas. It's only for practice. It's not a _real_ sword,” she told him, taking his free hand and leading him back inside the house.

 

Firas perked up. “Then where can I get a real sword?”

 

“When you come of age, you'll be gifted one, okay...? Now, have a seat, mommy's working on something special...”

 

Firas hopped up into a chair, taking a whetstone and doing as best as a child could to teach himself how to sharpen a dulled sword. “Something special?”

 

“Yes...” Vida smiled, sinking back into her cushioned seat and resuming her work. “I'm making a tapestry of our family...”

 

Firas was silent, listening and watching his mother, and with frustration dropped the worthless sword and the whetstone onto the table. Vida continued. “We all join hands, held together by our bond...That's why it's special. Here, why don't you take these bits of yarn and try to braid them together again?”

 

“I messed up and made the braid too tight near the end last time...” Firas pouted.

 

“You got too tense,” Vida reassured him. “Try again. We'll work together.”

 

…

 

Years had passed. The tapestry had been long completed—a beautiful thing. From left to right there was Geoff, Firas in the middle, then Vida, all holding hands and all looking content. But their expressions betrayed the truth of the ones on their faces now. Geoff drank a little at first, and it was fine, it was natural—a mug of mead or ale after a long day's work? Almost all people did that. But now he almost always had a bottle on him, or somewhere near him. That, and he took intoxicating concoctions and brews. He had no problem at all experimenting with his growing addiction—even if it meant spending almost all of his earnings on it when he had a family to take care of.

 

Vida was mostly bedridden, and sometimes Geoff would try to offer her some drug or another. At first it went on—but once Firas found out, he guarded her like a vicious wolf, and threatened his father should he drug or otherwise keep her in bed.

 

“But I'm tryin' ta heeelp...” Geoff slurred defensively. “You're not a fuckin' doctor,” Firas snarled in reply. “Get the fuck away from mom.”

 

“Or you'll what?” Geoff taunted, swaying in his spot and opening his arms wide. “You gonna fight yer old man? How old are you, seventee—“

 

“I'll drive my fist or a kitchen knife or choke you with chains—I don't care. If you hurt mom, I'll fucking kill you.” Firas was already shaking with rage. He could barely register the gentle touch of his mother's hand on his arm in an attempt to soothe him.

 

“Ooh, you gonna kill daddy? Big words, little boy—“ Geoff was interrupted again, this time by Vida, who had enough of her husband's rightfully unwanted presence.

 

“Shut _up_ , Geoff, or somebody _will_ kill you and I won't bat an eye.”

 

…

 

Two years ago, on his twentieth birthday, Firas received the family sword. It had no name, and he wasn't surprised, especially with a family as broken as his.

 

He was stronger now, and due to his unstable home life, his senses were keen and every day he thought of survival, looked about his surroundings wherever he went, played out scenarios in his head and what might happen, how he'd react, what he would do or say...

 

He practiced with his martial arts and with his sword, but nothing garnered experience quite like the real thing...

 

Firas entered his home and looked about. Where was his mother? His brows knit immediately and he called out to her. “Ma?” Then, louder. “Ma!”

 

Instead, his father shambled into the main room. “Yer mother's gone...” he muttered.

 

Firas' eyes widened and he felt that sickening feeling in his heart, that burning sensation in his core. He glared at his father, hand twitching for his sword. “Where is she?! What did you do with her?!” he demanded.

 

Geoff scoffed. “I didn't do nothin'...When I came home, she was gone.” His dismissive attitude only ignited Firas' anger further.

 

“That's your _wife!_ ” he roared. “You should be fucking looking for her, the woman you never and could never deserve, you limp-dicked coward fuck!”

 

“You know what? Yer nothin' but a degenerate wise-ass _bitch_ ,” Geoff replied. “You wanna come at me, bitch? You hit me and I'll put you in the ground.”

 

Firas' eyes widened, his pupils shrank, and he felt his heart pounding in every space of his body. For a man whose name meant _peace_...Was this his father? How could this man be his father? “No, the real degenerate is _you_ , Geoff.”

 

“Oh, yer not even gonna call me yer da anymo—“

 

Firas had closed the distance between them and drove his fist straight into his father's solar plexus. In the few seconds of shock and choked breathing and heaving, Firas grit his teeth, trying to dig his fist in deeper. _I want my fist in your fucking ribcage!_

 

Then, in an instant, Geoff pulled out his sword, and Firas had no time to do anything than to take a step back.

 

The sword swung diagonally at his face, and it cut deep, but by the grace of the gods, the blade missed his eye.

 

Firas reeled back, at first shrieking from pain, but it soon devolved into almost inhuman howls of rage. Blood ran quickly down his face, dripping from his chin and onto the front of his shirt. The opening on his left brow made blood pour into his eye, but that didn't matter. Nothing mattered but making this man—no, he was unworthy of being called a man anymore. Nothing mattered but making this worthless, despicable _vermin_ suffer a terrible end.

 

Suddenly his sword was in his hands, and as Geoff raised his own, Firas swung with perfect precision, breaking through bone, tearing through muscle and sinew, and, as fate would have it, sent a pinky finger flying to the ground. He could barely notice the quiet thud and roll of the finger over Geoff's pained and horrified wails.

 

But this wasn't over. Firas turned back to his _prey_ and swung hard at one of his knees, feeling the bone struggle against the steel, but he could hear and feel the crack as it gave and Geoff fell to the floor.

 

As Geoff writhed and rolled on the ground, Firas saw an opportunity and swung at the back of the other leg—severing his hamstring. “ _Ahhh!_ Gods! Oh, my God—Fuck! _Fuck!_ ” his father screamed himself hoarse. Firas narrowed his eyes, looking down on what used to be his father with disgust before he lifted a boot, and kicked Geoff in the ribs. He did this several times, kicking and stomping on the man below him, before kneeling down, taking one arm at a time and dislocating them. He would make Geoff feel as helpless as he and his mother had felt for years, and he reveled in his father's wails of agony and pleas for salvation.

 

He rolled Geoff onto his back and stood over him. He took a glance at the pinky finger on the floor, then looked back at his father with a wicked grin and wild eyes. “From this day forward,” his fists clenched with conviction. “I will take the pinky finger of _anyone_ who breaks an oath to me and make a necklace out of it!”

 

Geoff squirmed, bloodshot eyes full of terror and confusion. He shook his head erratically. “Yer crazy—Yer crazy! It must've been yer mother—you must be some sort of dev—“

 

Firas would hear no more of this, and he would not be called a _devil_ by the likes of _him_. He held their gaze unwaveringly as he raised his sword in both hands, and drove it down into Geoff's sternum. There was a gurgling, choked noise in his throat, and then he was limp, eyes glassy.

 

...

 

It was his first kill...his first real battle. Firas gripped onto the hilt of his sword, panting, trying desperately to regain himself. He couldn't stay here—but where was his mother? He removed his sword from his father's body unceremoniously and, in a very symbolic way, swung his sword to his right, cutting the tapestry over the image of his father and staining it with blood.

 

He sheathed his sword, rummaged for bandages. It wasn't hard to find alcohol, but the cuts were deep and he hissed and nearly doubled over every time he cleaned the wounds. Soon enough, he bandaged his face. As promised, he collected his father's pinky finger, but now he looked for any traces of his mother...

 

Firas scanned her room, opened her wardrobe, it didn't seem like too many clothes were gone, like she had just gotten dressed, perhaps. He looked through the drawers, she left her journal behind. He thumbed through it, but no entry today. Firas went to her bed where something caught his eye.

 

With an almost horrified expression, he reached out and picked up one of her teardrop opal earrings she always wore. Was she kidnapped? Did she leave this as a clue for Firas? Did she have to leave because of Geoff? No, she would never leave without her son. Vida was a good mother. He felt a lump in his throat and pursed his lips. He didn't know what to think, but he kept the earring safe.

 

He wiped himself down haphazardly before tossing the bloodied rag aside. Only miscreants, thieves, and other lowly people dwelled in these parts, who were they to judge?

 

Either way, Firas couldn't remain here. This was his home no longer, and he had to find some sort of lead to the whereabouts of his mother. He packed the basics: clothes, food that wouldn't spoil too quick, alcohol for the pain and to clean his wounds, a whetstone, lantern, bandages...and of course, he kept the earring safe. As for the finger, he went to his mother's jewelry making table and grabbed a steel strand, cut it, and punctured the finger onto it. Once he fashioned a clasp, he put it around his neck and hid it under his shirt.

 

He took one last look at his broken home. A corpse on the floor. Furniture tumbled over, the rug stained with blood, the tapestry and the walls splattered with blood, and the man responsible on the tapestry cut like the one on the floor...

 

With that he left what used to be his home with a slam of the door, and passed through the town with a dark, stoic expression, ignoring all who looked at his appearance and wondered.

 


End file.
